


What He Heard Just Then

by spotlightonmringenue



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Peter, Post-Season/Series 06, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-26
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-10-28 22:03:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 20,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20785766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spotlightonmringenue/pseuds/spotlightonmringenue
Summary: Stiles is staring back, the resignation falling underneath creeping hands of want, claiming with just a kiss. That is not a “thank you for surviving long enough to give them my car keys” kiss. Peter’s hand shifts against the side of the door, arm extending until wood meets the frame with a gentle click. The heartbeat behind him is steady, less nervous than the werewolf has ever heard it as he slides the chain back into place.Peter wakes up to an empty bed.(A post-finale, mostly canon compliant story about idiots whose problems would be solved a lot faster and maybe even cease to exist if they sat down and talked to each other. Just like the show.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The chapters are short so I'll be updating every day. Characters and tags will be added as we go. Enjoy.

Peter flexes his jaw, wincing as he hears the bone fragments grind together. His face isn’t grateful for the beating it took earlier. This is all Scott’s fault. He swipes a hand through the condensation on the mirror, pleased to see that his face didn’t heal crooked. 

Peter feels middle-aged, which isn’t a surprise considering that he’s moving through his upper 30’s. The lines forming on his forehead are what’s surprising, his age starting to show in upsetting ways. He’s a werewolf, he should have had another twenty years before getting a hint of wrinkles. It’s not even that he minds them, but it means his body has been under an amount of strain that’s aging him beyond werewolf life-extending abilities. It’s always hanging out with teenagers that’s screwed him over. Again, all Scott’s fault. 

He scrubs a towel against the side of his head, footsteps light over the wood flooring as he moves into the hall. Peter wraps the damp fabric around his neck, hitting the heel of his palm against the side of his head as he opens the fridge. He doesn’t catch the noise at first, distracted by the thought of a warm meal and battered on by a lingering chill in his bones. Why are all these fights in the woods at night, anyway? 

That’s when he hears it. 

A heartbeat, just outside his door and faster than it should be. The familiarity allows him to place the stranger as Stiles, and he considers pretending that he’s not home. After all, the boy hasn’t even knocked yet and Peter left the lights off when he came inside. He knows from experience that turning them on after getting home from a fight leads to a massive migraine later.

The fridge door closes as Peter makes a decision, knowing that he should get this over with. Stiles is one of the few people he expects to follow through when something needs to be done. In this case, that means he would bust the door down if Peter didn’t answer. There is still no knock as he approaches. Peter feels uneasy, but removes the chain and listens as the heartbeat begins to slow down.

“I helped Scott this time, you can’t be here to kill or arrest me. I think one of the Ghost Riders broke my nose. If this can wait until tomorrow, I would appreciate it,” Peter says as he opens the door, staring at Stiles with the heaviest look of exhaustion that he can manage. The scent is stronger now, filling the space between them. The werewolf takes a breath, brain checking out as Stiles walks inside, ignoring the room to look back at him. The boy smells like anxiety as usual, but it’s so faint that this could be anyone at all. 

The emotion that Peter’s senses are struggling to process is resignation. For some reason, Stiles is overwhelmed by his acceptance of defeat. If the bruises on Peter’s abdomen are any indication, they weren’t defeated. They fought until the end and won, as Scott’s Pack often does.

Stiles doesn’t even seem bitter about it, just accepting that this is where they’ve ended up, and Peter is certain that can feel his own frown forming. His usual mask of indifference fails as he tries to find the reason. Peter thinks he’s looking at Stiles, still holding the door open at a loss for words. He takes in the scent again, looking for the piece to solve the puzzle as it presses against his lips, soft and grounding. The werewolf didn’t realize he had closed his eyes. 

When he opens them, Stiles is staring back, the resignation falling underneath creeping hands of want, claiming with just a kiss. That is not a “thank you for surviving long enough to give them my car keys” kiss. Peter’s hand shifts against the side of the door, arm extending until wood meets the frame with a gentle click. The heartbeat behind him is steady, less nervous than the werewolf has ever heard it as he slides the chain back into place.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Derek’s call that morning had Peter vaguely implying that he might show up to train the Pack for fighting against hunters. He locks his car, putting on sunglasses before staring into the Preserve. Their first mistake was to train where actual hunters could be active and waiting. Then again, why would Peter care if Scott dies? Malia may be mad for a while, but the Alpha spark will be much easier to take from the Baby-Hulk. Their scents suggest they went west.

As Peter walks, he can distinguish specific people by smell, finding one that reminds him of twisted sheets and marked skin. He didn’t realize Stiles was home on break. The werewolf covers his own smug air with another, more familiar feeling. This is classic Peter, someone who knows something you don’t and is better for it.

He hears them then, Derek correcting a movement before grumbling voices respond. Stiles is sitting apart from the rest with a faint smile, caused by getting to see them tossed into the ground over and over without it being a life-or-death situation. Peter hefts a pinecone, throwing it at Derek’s head and watching his nephew dip right, hand coming up to catch and look at the projectile. They all turn to watch as Peter enters the clearing, clicking his tongue.

“If that was a flash bomb, he’d be down for the count. Rule 1: Turn away from all sound.” The August sun is bright, and Peter knows he’ll get overheated if he doesn’t do something. He sees Malia still wearing her jacket and makes eye contact, shifting like he’s uncomfortable. She follows it, unconscious mimicking that makes her remove the layer as Peter does the same, arms flexing. Stiles’ gaze darts away from them. He sees Derek’s twitch, which means that the boy failed to disguise his scent, but Derek glances at Malia and rolls his eyes, assuming that she’s the cause. A perfect manipulation, as usual.

Peter tosses his jacket to Stiles, watching the boy scramble on the rock being used as a seat. After getting his balance back, Stiles huffs, setting the clothing beside him and frowning as Peter walks closer to Scott. Peter swings, claws out, and the Alpha catches both hands, one going for his neck and the other for his gut. The older man drops him, ankle hooking Scott’s knee from behind and staring down as the Alpha's back hits the dirt. A single claw grazes the skin of Scott's throat.

“Rule 2: If you have to fight, fight with more than your hands. Claws are fast. Guns are faster.”

Scott shoves the arm away before pushing to his feet. “What are you doing here, Peter?”

“Derek told me that you were all miserable fighters and asked for my gracious assistance.” They all look to the other Hale, who’s staring at his uncle with mild amusement.

“Not in so many words, but yes. You could use his help. The only person in our family who fought better than him was my mother.”

“Now that we understand each other, let’s get started. You have five minutes to win against me. If you’re lethally tagged within those five minutes, you’re out. Last one standing, wins.” Liam shrugs, growling as he crouches, Scott worried as they see Malia do the same. Peter shifts, though he remains upright, eyes narrowing as he speaks through the fangs. “Begin.” They move at once, falling through the air as they pounce to the place Peter was moments ago. Now, he’s moving, dragging along Liam’s side and snarling as the boy cries out, hands pressed against the injury. “One down.” Malia and Scott move together, Peter once again slipping away at the last moment and dancing out of reach. 

There’s a movement behind him and he ducks, looking up to see Derek tumble into a roll, braced as his head pops up. There’s a feral grin on his face and they’re all moving to Peter again, Mason and Corey staring with wide eyes as he takes down Malia and Derek. He’s used to their fighting styles, Scott being less predictable as he blends what he was taught by Deucalion and Derek, adding in moves that look like street fighting. When Peter gets a chance to pause for breath, he looks at Scott, eyebrows coming together. 

“Are you using moves from Mortal Kombat?” Stiles whoops, making Peter roll his eyes as the Alpha comes at him again, breathing hard. Scott’s not experienced in extended fighting, or one-on-one. He’s not used to opponents that have trained their whole lives to fight and are using the knowledge to toy with him, rather than go for the kill. On one move, Scott almost clips him and he staggers with it, bracing a hand against this stomach and grunting. The Alpha rejoices, smiling and dropping the shift as he looks at Malia.

“I did-” Peter has claws on his neck before Scott can breathe out, forced to tilt his head back so he’s not cut.

“Rule 3: Your opponent is never defeated, unless you can’t hear a heartbeat.” He steps back, dusting off his shirt and sighing. “Though in my case, even that’s not true.” He smiles at them, head turned to look over his shoulder as he takes a deep breath. “Rule 4: If you are given the opportunity, run and hide. This rule trumps all the others. I knew I liked you,” he adds, the wolves confused until Theo emerges from the woodline, unharmed. The chimera approaches Liam, taking his pain as the boy stares in reluctant respect. “It’s not Pack mentality, but it will keep you alive.”

“This isn’t what I meant when I said we needed your help, Peter.” The older man looks at Derek, seated with his back against a tree until Scott helps him up.

“You need my help, specifically mine. I’m still alive and they won’t make it to 25 if they don’t do better. Besides, that wasn’t training, it was a wake-up call. None of you know how to dodge. You shouldn’t take a punch just because you can.”

They train for the rest of the day, Peter making them fight each other when he feels an ache creeping up on him. Liam and Scott aren’t as experienced, but they have a strength that makes him wince when they start to land hits. He makes Mason and Corey fight against Stiles, leading to chaos that consists of flailing and bad aim. When Peter laughs, Stiles gets distracted, trying to make sure that the glare he's sending the werewolf's way is really felt. So distracted that he ends up stumbling forward as Corey pushes him and disappears again. 

Liam is the first to leave, taking his friends with him because Theo is their ride. Peter is surprised when he hears Derek has a date, though Scott claims that he’s met her and she’s very normal. Peter is still hesitant because Paige was normal. Malia tells Scott that it’s date night, which Peter can tell she decided in the moment based on her boyfriend's confused smile. The daze in Scott’s scent turns to worry as Malia tries to race him to the car.

“Stiles?” The boy waves Scott forward, picking his bat up and tossing Peter the jacket he was given earlier.

“I’ll be fine. He can drive.” The older man sighs, trying to look burdened.

“Oh, why thank you, Peter, for offering your vehicle. How generous,” he says, batting his eyes as Scott frowns.

“You’re sure?” 

Stiles nods, raising his eyebrows as Malia’s voice echoes back to them with a demand to hurry up. “Go.” The Alpha does, racing away as Stiles and Peter follow, much slower and falling into step together. There’s a near silence, the woods snapping and singing as they do when people stay quiet enough to hear it. A few animals show up, though they leave just as fast, Peter being a natural predator in their eyes. The silence remains as he starts the car, Stiles fiddling with the A/C. It gets colder and colder as Peter passes the Stilinski house, pulling into his parking space at the apartment and stepping into the warm night. Insects and downtown nightlife have started to fill the street with sound, loud enough that it sounds fake after the muted car ride. The apartment is locked with them inside.

Peter is the first to move, walking toward his bedroom as the jacket comes off and is set on the hallway counter. The shirt is next, the air providing a nice medium between two temperature extremes. Quiet steps follow him, circling to stay at his back as he turns and shuts the bedroom door. His abdomen spasms as cold fingers run over bare skin, a sharp inhale all he can manage in protest. Stiles’ pupils dilate while his eyelids sink half-way, pushing the hand closer until his palm is against the bottom of the werewolf’s ribs.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	3. Chapter 3

He brushes the remaining stone shards off his shoulder, coughing and wincing away from the cloud of dust that comes up at him. There are voices, and he looks out the small window of the exit doors to see Malia supporting Scott as they hobble toward the Jeep. Peter almost joins them.

He sees Derek follow, his nephew smiling as Stiles mimes throwing something on the ground and watching it explode. When the boy stops flailing, he slides his hand into Lydia’s, weaving their fingers together as they follow their Alpha. Right, Peter thinks. Scott is their Alpha. Peter’s place is not in a Pack. It hasn’t been since Talia stopped listening to him.

He follows Monroe’s scent through the halls instead of joining the others, exiting through one of the back doors and losing the trail in the empty parking lot. He shifts back to human, looking up as it starts to rain. Using his jacket as cover, he runs to his car, heading back to a quiet apartment. Something's changed, and he gets the same feeling in his gut that he got before the fire. This will end badly for him, as usual.

His phone chimes with a text from Malia, one that he answers just to make sure they don’t think he’s dead or abducted. Peter takes a shower and eats in the dark, leaving the curtains open so that the moon shines through. It’s calming, after the fear that the Anuk-Ite used to grate his fine-tuned senses. They all reeked of terror for the last few weeks.

Peter stares outside. The trees urge him to run, even in the growing storm. Any danger that could affect Malia has passed, and he could use a vacation from Beacon Hills. Even though he knows he’ll come back, he could go. No one would even know he was gone.

With that in mind, he washes the plate, placing it on the drying rack. The fridge is emptied of everything that will go bad within the month. His suitcase gives out a hollow thud as it drops to the floor from its shelf and Peter is confused when it echoes. God, he's old enough or poisoned enough to start hearing noises that aren't really there. Then the sound comes again, a knock accompanied by a speeding heart. He hesitates, eyeing the suitcase before shutting the closet door and walking back into the front room. The rapid noise comes a third time. It feels like a third strike. Peter opens the door and stares as Stiles pushes his hair back, dripping from head to toe.

“We aren’t like that,” Stiles says, waiting for a sign that he can enter. Peter doesn’t understand what the sign is or how to give it, but Stiles steps inside a moment later, so it must be subconscious. “I wouldn’t- I’m not- We were too close after everything that happened. It didn’t click anymore. Scott doesn’t know.” 

Peter locks the door and walks away, coming back with a towel that Stiles takes and uses on his wet hair before dropping it on the tile entrance. The suitcase is abandoned in favor of helping Stiles as the wet flannel fights to come off and gets tangled behind his back. When the werewolf's hands touch skin, hesitation falls away. Stiles wriggles until the shirt is pulled up and thrown aside, his mouth claimed as Peter works on the soaked pants. The zipper’s free and Peter grabs his hand, fingers sliding to fit together before dragging him to the bedroom. Moonlight is splashed over everything and Peter revels in it, eyes adjusting to the shining hue in the dark. A firm hand pushes Stiles onto the comforter and the jeans are a team effort.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	4. Chapter 4

“Monroe has Issac. She had him brought here and is using him to draw us out.”

“That’s why we’re here? You know she wants us to go after him and we’re just going to follow through.”

“This is Issac. We aren’t leaving him with hunters when we could do something.” Scott’s optimism is a terrifying force of nature.

“We _can’t_ do something. Not without dying. I think Issac would understand.”

“We’re Pack, and we’re going. Are you coming with us?” Peter stares at him, eyes flickering to Malia with a look that’s asking if she’s serious. She’s serious. 

“Don’t use Pack as an excuse. This brand of crazy is 100 percent McCall.” Malia mouths her thanks and Peter clicks his tongue, leaning back against the wall. “Tell me you have a plan that isn’t to just save the day.” 

Scott nods, staring down at the blueprints the Sheriff brought as he answers. “Stiles is coming back. He said he’ll make a plan on the way.”

“Have I ever mentioned how sad it is that your strategist lives across the country? What if we had a two-hour time limit?” Scott doesn’t humor him, going over the circumstances with the crowded room and letting them ask questions. Another meeting is held in the morning to explain the improvised plan.

Stiles is sleeping in the front entrance of Deaton’s office, slumped across the chairs as Peter walks in. He kicks at a shin, and Stiles slurs in alarm as his body jerks upright. The cup of coffee in his face confuses him until he catches Peter’s hand holding it, and the werewolf’s finger taps the side of the cup as Stiles’ gaze lingers on the digits. The boy rubs his eyes. It’s almost cute. Stiles accepts the offer, yawning a hello before Peter enters the back room. He sets the caffeinated drinks down and everyone pounces on them, jittery and focused as they try to find flaws in the plan.

“What if it all goes to hell? Is it okay to say every wolf for himself?” Melissa glares at him and he holds out his hands. What does she expect from him, undying devotion?

“This is a Pack, Peter. We don’t run away at the first sign of trouble.” 

“You’ve forgotten your training so quickly. This isn’t a Darach, or a Kanima, or a rogue werewolf. This is a large group of people with guns who have found their sole purpose in massacring the supernatural. Rule number four is the most important one.”

“I agree with him.” Everyone, including Peter, is surprised to see it was the Sheriff who spoke, his eyes on the Alpha as he nods. “I don’t know what rule four is, but if it means running when you’re up against a firing squad, I say do it. There are enough of us to finish this as long as we don’t get too divided.”

“Retreating to a safe location really could save your life,” Parrish adds, looking at Scott. The Alpha seems concerned that people are agreeing with Peter, but he backs down, letting them know that helping Issac doesn’t mean they have to die. If they’re alone and wounded, he agrees that they should go back and wait for the others. He indicates a meeting place, Melissa chosen to wait there with her car in case they need to be taken to Deaton. When everyone is arguing about how to communicate if they can’t hear each other, Peter eyes the blueprints. He sees a bunch of monopoly pieces and coins, all labeled with a sticker. Scott gestures to the paper and Peter steps away, one piece shifted out to sit by Melissa. No one seems to notice. It was a seamless change, one that Peter would have goaded them into anyway, if there were objections.

Stiles stares at Scott, baffled as the Alpha tells him he’ll be on back-up with Melissa. He had been with Liam and Theo in the original plan, the one _Stiles_ made, the same one that Scott is insisting was misunderstood  
.  
“You’re kidding me,” he hisses, grasping the tattooed bicep and yanking when his friend tries to leave.

“Stiles, we’re out of time. We’ll talk later.” Scott pulls free, ducking with Malia through the woods and disappearing into the dark. The boy turns to Melissa with wide eyes.

“I came up with the plan. I know where I’m supposed to be.”

“I don’t know, Stiles. Your piece was next to mine on the papers. Maybe he was confused when you explained it.” Stiles shakes his head, sighing as he hops into the van and shuts the door. He sets the bat beside his knee, frowning out the window and waiting for some damn answers.

They hear gunfire and wait.

They hear screaming and wait.

They hear howls and wait.

They hear twigs snapping as something approaches and Melissa starts the car, prepared to peel out if it’s necessary. Stiles opens his door as glowing eyes light up the shadows, meeting Liam and Theo when they stumble forward, Issac unconscious between them. Melissa starts chastising Liam when she realizes his shirt is red with blood and not naturally crimson. Their abundant injuries make sense, considering that they were down one person from the structure that was supposed to be in place. Stiles moves Issac into the vehicle and the werewolves try to explain while they catch their breath.

“Plan. Fell apart. Scott switched directions with us.” Liam collapses, hand over his side as Melissa crouches beside him, looking at the clean shot and starting to bandage it. 

“When we found him, he didn’t know us, obviously,” Theo continues for him, looking pissed. “It should have been Scott convincing him to move. He didn’t even get the Pack scent from Liam, so we had to knock him out before he would stop screaming.” The chimera stands, rolling his shoulders and taking deep breaths. “I’m going back. Make sure this idiot doesn’t die. Liam,” he says, leaning down and patting the werewolf’s face. “Use your anchor to heal faster. Also, you owe me ten dollars.” 

Theo darts back into the woods, leaving Liam to grunt through his teeth as he tries to stand up. “Asshole,” he says, falling over into Stiles’ arms.

“Yeah, okay. Get in the car, He-Man. Let’s hope Issac waits until Scott gets back to wake up.” When Liam stays quiet and calm, Stiles looks at him in confusion. “You aren’t saying the mantra. You got a new anchor?” The werewolf flushes, squeezing his eyes shut and turning his face away. Stiles frowns, leaning his head out the window and listening to the night. He’ll have to pay more attention, though it’s fair to say that he’s been distracted recently. Stiles cuts off that thought, because he refuses to think about a hot mouth against his neck and gentle hands everywhere else when they’re in the middle of a rescue mission. Damn it.

The twigs come again and they brace, but Liam nods. “It’s our side.”

Chris stalks forward with Parrish, watching the man pat out a small flame on his arm with a frown. Melissa is in the hunter’s arms as Stiles hands a key for one of the waiting vans to the hellhound.

“My dad?”

“He’s fine. Everyone is fine. Malia and Derek are bringing Scott back.” Melissa sighs in relief as Parrish says that, moving to hold Chris’ hand as the man continues. “He got a bit…overwhelmed, but he’ll heal. The Sheriff is watching their backs with Theo.”

“What about Peter?” Parrish frowns, turning to look at Chris as the man stares back with a cautious shake of the head. Not good.

“I didn’t see him.”

“He was on your team,” Stiles says to Parrish, voice getting louder. “It was in the plan, he was on your team. What, did the asshole wander off? Where the hell is he?” They stare at him, surprised by the livid attitude as Stiles lifts his bat and pushes past them. “This is why I had to be there. You’re supposed to notice when you’re missing an entire person.” 

Before he can get fired up in his rant, they hear more crashing brush and look to Liam, watching him nod again. Malia and Derek come through, dragging Scott like Parrish said. 

“Where’s Peter?” They look at each other, breathing heavy with exertion but looking unsure. “Okay, this is why I was called from Washington, D.C. I make a plan that works. We do not let Scott change the plan, under any circumstances. He can be really stupid when it comes to saving his friends.” They hand the unconscious Scott to Parrish, who carries him toward the second van as everyone else turns to Theo and the Sheriff, the last ones to emerge.

“Peter?” Derek asks, watching as they both respond in the negative. Stiles brings a hand around his back, about to pull the gun from his waistband. Guess that FBI training wasn’t for nothing.

“I may have changed the plan as well.” Peter walks out of the woods with a wide smile. Stiles lets go of the weapon in relief, shirt falling back into place. “Though it wasn’t for Issac’s sake.” He’s dragging something behind him, and they all back away when he tosses it forward, Monroe’s body looking as bloody as Peter does. The werewolves step even farther back, trying to block the stench of death with their shirt fronts. “As inspired as it was, you were thinking too small, solving a temporary problem. This is a permanent solution,” the werewolf says, eyes flashing, stark against the red splashed across his face.

"I didn't see this," the Sheriff says, walking away with a hand up to block his own vision.

After they’ve ensured that Scott reaches Deaton’s clinic, Peter goes home and falls asleep on the couch, spending the next day spreading the news through his supernatural network that Monroe is dead. Once hunters find out that she’s gone, some will lose their will or their nerve, not wanting to challenge the Pack that took her down in her own trap. Hopefully, it’ll mean less interruptions for a while. He’s busy until late, meeting Derek and Issac to get rid of Monroe’s remains. _It should be harder_, he thinks, but he did hate her. Monroe was everything wrong with rogue hunters. Killing because she felt she was justified by her experiences. Killing, but refusing to accept that she just did it because she loved it. Peter may be a monster, but at least he can be honest about why. 

He gets back to the apartment around midnight and his shower is running, which means that Stiles' return flight isn't until the morning. The pickpocket must have made a copy of the key, like he does with every other key he can get his hands on. Peter enters the muggy bathroom, blinking as his senses adjusts to the heat.

“There is no good reason to use water that hot.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to keep out strange old men,” he hears, staring at the dirt under his nails and mentally shrugging. It’s not like he can’t pay the water bill. Stiles turns as the werewolf joins him moments later, dragging Peter into a kiss. The boy hums as they separate. He doesn’t get farther than a few spare inches, and when Stiles’ eyes open, they’re eager, more than just accepting that he ended up here. The skin under Peter’s hands is flushed pink, heated by the water and the air as he takes a deep breath, feeling the humid warmth inside and out. It fills him with unexpected relief. Stiles pushes wet hands through the werewolf’s hair, using the grip to slide their bodies together. 

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	5. Chapter 5

Three months later, summer arrives in full force, a rainy May washing in Stiles and Lydia to stay for the season. They still haven’t told Scott. Stiles shows up after the first week, letting himself in and finding Peter on the couch. He does that now, because Peter conveniently forgets to put the chain on. The werewolf closes his book as Stiles climbs over him, hands braced against the arm rest on either side of Peter’s head. Whatever lore he was reading is forgotten as the boy leans forward, soft and careful. 

He wonders why they don’t race to get to it. Why it’s never heated make-outs that lead to rushed sex, the way it should be, considering the antagonized relationship of their past. It’s easier this way, their slow movements somehow calm and exciting. He refuses to use the word vulnerable, because the only thing worse than being available to get hurt is admitting it. A wandering hand moves to the exposed midriff above Peter, Stiles smiling as it circles to his back and drags him down. His weight falls and Peter doesn’t think being supernatural is what made it painless. He pushes Stiles’ head to the side, neck stretching for him as the werewolf takes a deep breath, blunt teeth finding the vulnerable pulse.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	6. Chapter 6

He’s sorting through the Thai food he just ordered when Stiles unlocks the door. A carton is traded between them, wordless. Stiles takes the chopsticks that Peter won’t use anyway. It’s like this now. He’s not sure when it happened, but even around the others, there's a rhythm between each other where they catch signals and use them to work efficiently. The same system now allows them to eat the lights off and watch as it starts to rain without questioning their actions. 

Until Stiles sets down his food before walking out the door and leaving Peter is a bit lost. Maybe Stiles was just hungry and alone. He stands, putting away the leftovers and throwing out their trash. Peter’s wiping down the counter as the door opens again, Stiles returning drenched from the rain. The werewolf stares, watching Stiles take off his shoes and attempt the flannel, once again tangling the fabric behind his back. He shimmies once he’s stuck, giving Peter a coy smile. This makes more sense. Peter follows through, walking over and pulling on the cuffs until the shirt falls. It’s nudged aside by his foot as he moves around to face Stiles.

“Most people just ask,” he says, voice fading as the boy steps in, hands landing on Peter’s hips. They connect, too distracted by the heat of their mouths to feel the rain sticking their shirts to skin. He finds that he likes being lost for a moment, coming back to himself with the sight of Stiles relaxing onto the bed. Peter hooks an arm under the boy’s leg, the palm of his hand moving from hip to knee as he bends it forward. Stiles shudders when he drags the same hand down on the backside of the thigh, fading pink lines from his claws left behind.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	7. Chapter 7

The monster of the week takes Stiles. While Scott is scrambling to rally the forces like he did for Isaac, Peter tracks down and tears the stranger apart, staring at the remains in disgust. He hears a heartbeat, following it to find Stiles, head tucked into his folded knees. Peter bumps into a rickety shelf on the way toward him and Stiles jumps, looking up with terrified eyes. He stares as his bindings are removed, hands finding Peter's face and hovering over the scratches.

"It'll heal," Peter says, watching Stiles nod before helping him stand. When he offers to take Stiles home, the phone is taken from his pocket, and a quick call to Scott ends the search party.

“Hold on, why are you using Peter’s phone?”

Stiles voice sounds solid but empty. Hollow, like he’s just trying to get through the call. “He found me and killed the guy. I’m insanely tired, so I’m probably going to stay where I am, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.”

“Stiles, wait-” Scott’s voice cuts out as he’s hung up on. Peter almost protests as well, but Stiles drags him out of the underground lair with a death grip on his hand. He can’t find the will to change Stiles’ mind.

After taking a shower, Peter steps out to find a small first-aid station set up on his dining room table. The alcohol wipe burns more than just letting himself heal would, but he lets Stiles comfort himself with the thought that he's helping. His eyes drift close. He hadn't slept while searching for Stiles, and 48 hours takes its toll on a werewolf as much as anyone. 

Peter's not sure how long it takes him to wake up, finding everything cleared away while he was out cold. Stiles’ shoulders rise and fall from his slumped position over the table. When Peter wakes him up, he stands, clasping their hands and pulling toward the bedroom. Hitched breathing is all the werewolf can hear, focusing as he slides the first finger inside. Stiles buries his face in the pillow as Peter adds another. It's a terrible attempt to muffle his voice, moans melting through as his hips push back for more.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	8. Chapter 8

A street away from the apartment, Peter pulls to a stop and remains there, foot on the brake in the middle of the road. His heightened ears pick up on Lydia and Stiles arguing from the first-floor landing.

"I'm just going to warn him that if he hurts you, I'll scream so loud his great-grandchildren will hear it."

"Lydia, it's not like that." Peter can almost see them based on the sound of their clothes and shoes moving, Stiles running to block her path as she tries to go up the stairs.

"Not like what? I can tell you're together."

"Sleeping together," Stiles hisses. "We aren't together. It's just sexual tension that we have to get rid of by doing this. I don't need your help here." That's what this is, what it's always been. Peter knows. Stiles thought he was hot, and Peter thought he was interesting. It was the train station that forced them to spend enough time together. Forced them to confront it.

"You're going to get your heart broken."

"Lydia." It sounds like he makes an overdramatic body movement. "Hello. Lydia. No, I'm not. My heart's not in this. We are two consenting adults that happen to have fantastic sex. Don't scrunch your nose at me, it’s very good. If you insist on doing this, I will describe it in detail while we wait for him to get here." Peter can tell when she stops trying to step around Stiles. "Yes, thank you. I'm serious, too. Don't do this while I'm not here to stop you. I need this, Lydia. Peter is hu-" Stiles is interrupted, probably by a hand over his mouth.

"Fine. I'm saying this now, so I don't have to say it later when you come to me in tears. I told you so." Her heels click away, car starting and driving in the other direction, leaving Stiles alone to sigh. A steady heartbeat says that he never lied. The door to the apartment opens and closes upstairs as Peter takes a left and heads to the Preserve.

When he gets back, Stiles is asleep on the couch. The werewolf passes without a word, shutting the door to his room and changing into sweatpants. He lays down, staring at the clock as it flips over to 1 AM.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	9. Chapter 9

There's a knock, later that night. Peter's not surprised by it, opening the door and staring at Stiles. He’s rehearsed in his head how to act, how to behave so that Stiles believes last night was a fluke instead of a six-hour pouting excursion. The boy looks sheepish. If he thinks he pissed Peter off and caused the problem then it shouldn't be too difficult to pretend that there is no problem.

"What?" Peter asks, going back to the kitchen. The entrance is left open as he walks away. "Did someone run over your dog?"

"I don't have a dog."

"That's the joke, Stiles. This is where you roll your eyes." Stiles stares at him, confused by the easy-going attitude. He opens his mouth to respond, to ask why Peter didn't wake him up last night. He must decide some things are better left unknown. When Peter looks over his shoulder, Stiles enters the apartment and rolls his eyes. The door is locked behind him. "That’s better,” Peter says. “I have more jokes if you're willing to play along." He puts the milk away, the mug full of weak coffee abandoned now that the preoccupied attitude isn’t necessary.

"Are you finished?" The question is exasperated, Stiles watching Peter walk toward him with a slow smile.

"Not with you." It’s a bad line, and Peter couldn’t care less. He places his hand on the back of the boy's head, pushing forward and coaxing the mouth open. While Stiles is dazed, he turns him around and holds his waist, guiding them toward the bedroom and hearing a heartbeat pick up. He’s not sure whose it is.

Peter takes his time, appreciating every inch of skin he can reach while distracting Stiles enough to make sure he doesn't notice. It doesn't matter why the werewolf is stretching him with care. Peter closes his eyes and listens to the reaction. The pull of strained fabric. The friction of curling toes. The tight inhale of overworked lungs. _It's enough_, Peter thinks. He pins Stiles by the wrists, sinking in slow and feeling the tensed muscles tremble underneath him. _It's more than enough._

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	10. Chapter 10

It's the night before Stiles leaves for college again. Peter knows from the Pack meeting that he's spending it with Scott, indulging on video games and junk food, like they used to do. He stays up anyway, and at 3 AM, footsteps pad down the hall. Over the top of his book, he sees the door open and close, admitting Stiles to the bedroom. Another novel he sets aside because of a welcome interruption.

"What's it about?"

"Vampires." 

Stiles snorts, throwing a corner of Peter's blanket to the side and bracing hands on his chest before settling in a straddle. He rests his weight on Peter's hips, hands running down the shirt and grasping the hem. "You only read non-fiction."

“Maybe I’m branching out.”

“Or you’re just being a secretive bastard to spite me.”

Peter gives him a look, one that works surprisingly well. There’s a sigh, then Stiles looks down at his hands, running his fingertips along the seam at the bottom of Peter’s shirt. “I’m sorry, just tired. It was funny, really,” Stiles says, his supposed exhaustion giving mixed signals with the hands that have now wandered under the clothes.

“Stiles, considering that this is starting to look like you felt obligated to stop by before leaving, I should point out that you don’t owe me anything.” Peter keeps his own grip far away to make sure that the statement is understood. “I promise not to be offended if you don’t spend your last night with me.”

Stiles pauses. “Noted.” Peter watches him get up, almost inviting him to sleep instead, just so that he doesn’t have to drive all the way back to his house. Instead, Stiles tugs down on his own pants, gesturing for Peter to do the same. The werewolf sits in shock until Stiles figures it out for both of them, maneuvering back into Peter’s lap. “Slow,” Stiles murmurs, shivering as Peter’s hands slip over the groove between hip and thigh.

A slick glide returns his weight to the werewolf’s lap, Stiles’ head tilting back on a broken moan. Peter’s nails dig crescents on delicate skin. The moment burns itself into his memories as Stiles looks down with bright eyes and a sated smile.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	11. Chapter 11

He leaves Beacon Hills the next day, traveling to see Cora and being strangely welcomed by her Pack for his undefined visit. She asks him what's wrong. Peter doesn't answer at first, but when she insists, he tells her that the question offends him. Of course, he’s here to visit his niece, ensure her continued well-being. The weather is nice, moving into fall while remaining warm and bright. Scott calls a month after he’s gone and before picking up, Peter stares at it. He shuts it down and lays back on the beach chair, which is why he’s not surprised the next day, when Cora hands him her phone with Derek on the line.

"Nephew," he says. "Didn't you hear? I went on vacation."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. People do that sometimes." Peter hears a sigh through the phone.

"Scott thought something happened to you when you didn’t pick up, he’s calling in the cavalry-" The home phone rings from somewhere else in the loft and Peter hears a muttered curse. "Right now, actually."

"Better give him the good news, then. I just didn't let him know that I was skipping town. It shouldn't be too much of a surprise, considering my track record."

"When are you coming back?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Peter asks, hanging up and waiting for Cora to hold out her hand. He looks up when she doesn’t leave. "Don't worry, I won't be here the whole time."

"This may shock you but it's not like I want you gone." Yes, that does shock him. "I couldn't stay in Beacon Hills. That doesn't mean I wanted to leave you guys behind. I may not know you well anymore, but…we're all that's left." Peter goes still when she leans down and pats his arm. It reminds him of Laura, when she was trying to get his attention to point out something annoying or idiotic, and they would roll their eyes together. His remaining niece leaves after the strange affectionate moment, walking toward the road as the werewolf settles back in his seat, watching the water. A few more months, then. To avoid the Thanksgiving dinner that the McCalls are no doubt planning. He finds something to occupy his time, an intelligent woman that can keep up with him. The research into her suggests that she has no affiliation with the supernatural, murderous she-wolf or otherwise, so Peter decides that it’s safe enough to continue. After their third night together, he wakes up to find her sleeping against him. The sunrise provides a better view.

He picks up a few things, gifts for Malia and Derek. Peter ships them to himself, waiting for the November holiday to pass before ruffling Cora's hair and getting on a plane. Beacon Hills has never been so quiet at night. It takes a week to get everything back on schedule, collecting his mail from the post office and getting groceries to fill the fridge. He gets more bonds out of the safe, putting them in his account to fund more spending. There are still nine digits in storage, so he's not too worried. He drops off his gifts for the Hales and attends the Pack meeting, welcomed back without fanfare, though Mason asks him about the beach. He hasn't terrified the next generation enough if they're trying to explain to him the difference between teal and blue-green to understand the exact shade of the ocean. 

Scott tells him about the latest monster. It's not killing anyone, just irritating people enough to cause mass confusion and frustration. Peter helps them corner the bastard and scare him out of town. It's a shame, he was willing to kill it. He'd forgotten what it was like to fight and hunt like this because Cora's Pack just laid low, no threat to anything except the margarita bar. Peter thinks this is more like him.

The absent members of the Pack return for winter break, complaining about finals. He sits at the back of the room and just listens. When they all start planning to watch a movie at the loft, he leaves, picking up a pizza on the way home. Once back at his apartment, Peter realizes that the kitchen light is on and Stiles is putting a tray in the oven.

"Cookies," the boy says, as Peter wanders over and sets down the warm box. "I made them at Thanksgiving and brought some over, but you weren't here." Peter just nods, offering Stiles a slice that he takes, hopping up on the counter. "Derek told me what was up after the fact. How's Cora doing?"

"She seems happy," the werewolf says, getting his own slice and leaning back next to Stiles. They eat in peace, putting the leftovers away and moving to the cookies when the timer goes off. "They're good," he hums, noticing a stray line of melted chocolate on the edge of pink lips. His thumb drags over the corner of Stiles' mouth and pushes inside, entirely innocent until the boy's cheeks hollow and Peter forgets about food. 

He leaves marks where he can and starts drawing the contact out, waiting until Stiles' throat catches on his name with each wandering touch. Their hands weave together. Peter thought it would be rough and hurried the first time back, but it's not, even as he bites at the boy's shoulder and moves within him. Stiles stops caring about how loud his own voice is after the first hour, filling the room with sound, the press of their combined weight into the mattress feeling more familiar than when he sleeps alone.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 kudos, bless. Thank you for your declaration of like through kudos and comments, as I love reading the ones that are simultaneously enjoying the story and privately cursing me for messing with Peter so, so much. Enjoy.


	12. Chapter 12

Christmas Eve arrives and Stiles shows up around 10, shuffling inside and taking off a few layers. Peter makes tea and they watch a topical holiday movie. Well, they watch the first twenty minutes while making excessive commentary. Stiles sets down their cups and turns in the small area made by lying between Peter’s legs, using the position to kiss the werewolf into the couch. He hops up sometime later, grinning as he pulls on the blanket they were using and drapes it around himself like a cape. With a wide sweep that sends the blanket in a heavy arc, Stiles gestures for Peter to join him. Peter does, but first he takes a wrapped gift out of the kitchen drawer it was hidden in. He sets his present on the counter and leaves the light on. 

Stiles sinks back, hand grasping at Peter’s hair as his exposed neck becomes riddled with light bruises. Peter’s hands move over the upright torso, grasping and dragging Stiles back when it feels like he’s too far away. The claws extend as Stiles moans his name. It’s almost too much, and in a desperate attempt to get some distance, the werewolf pushes Stiles down, onto his hands and knees. Peter doesn’t know if this was a better alternative as he stares at the long, pale expanse and presses his thumbs into the hollows of the boy’s back.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	13. Chapter 13

He finds a gift in the kitchen, where his was placed the night before. It has a small card that says ‘From your Secret Santa’ attached. Peter tears off the paper to find a large leather book, like the ones he gave the other Hales, and when he opens it to the first page, two lines are written in careful script.

_Three things cannot long be hidden:_

_The sun, the moon, the truth_

On the next page:

_The Ito Bestiary, as transcribed by Stiles Stilinski_

Peter blinks, flipping through the rest of the book to find countless entries on creatures he has and hasn’t heard of, the stories of one of the oldest living werewolves sitting in his hands. It’s written with care, littered with the occasional drawing that Stiles credits as Satomi’s work. He can’t think of a time when he’s gotten a gift that was crafted with him in mind. Something made from scratch with the intention of giving it to Peter as a kind gesture. He closes it, seeing the leather cover embossed with a shining sun, a full moon, and the head of a wolf, straight down the center. Peter stares at the empty room down the hall, wondering how Stiles became close enough to know this much about him without any of Peter’s usual walls coming up. It’s too close, enough to warrant some distance, but at the same time he devours the words, reading the book through in one sitting.

When Stiles shows up that night, Peter kisses him before he can speak, pulling the boy inside and keeping their mouths occupied. The movements stay slow and easy, even as Peter’s head buzzes with an overwhelming need to take. The words he has to thank Stiles for thinking of him, for going through all that work just to give it away, they can’t be said. He stops when Stiles manages to catch his gaze, their breath becoming synced.

“You liked the gift?” 

This is where that distance would come in handy, but instead of changing the subject, Peter nods. He leans down to nuzzle Stiles’ throat, feeling a soft touch trace the nape of his neck before it pushes into his hair, holding him in place. “Good. Merry Christmas.” The boy laughs as Peter bites in response. He braces on an elbow, leaning over Stiles and waiting until the smile has dimmed enough to kiss with reasonable success.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	14. Chapter 14

January arrives and some of the Pack members have to leave again. Lydia is staring at him as he leans against the wall at their farewell gathering, so he’s not caught off-guard when she approaches.

“You went to South America for four months. You could meet anytime, if you cared less about pretending that you didn’t want to meet at all.”

“Could I?” 

Lydia huffs. “Yes. What do you think I’m saying this for? You’re too close to it, so you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Liar,” she counters, Peter growling as she holds her head high.

“Lydia!” They both look at Stiles, watching him weave through the loft and step between them with caution. “What are we talking about?”

Peter answers for her. “Christmas movies. There’s some disagreement about whether they’re too unrealistic about love. She's arguing against them.” 

Stiles looks suspicious but doesn’t question it, knowing they’re in a room full of sensitive ears. “Sorry, Lydia, I think I’m with Peter on this one.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else. After all, you’re a romantic.” She walks away, leaving them to look at each other, then away, breaking off to separate conversations. Peter makes his escape after a reasonable amount of time, telling Malia to forward him the payments if she doesn’t want to take loans on the next college semester. His apartment is quiet as he flips through the bestiary, smile twitching into place when he reads the notes and inside jokes that Stiles added to the margins, until the boy himself enters an hour later.

“You left your own party early?” 

Stiles grins, dragging him to the couch and sliding hands around his waist. “We have a movie to finish.”

They watch two more films after wrapping up the one from Christmas, each equally terrible but mildly satisfying. “You know, I’ve never understood the endings. What’s so love-inducing about an airport chase or public grand gesture?”

“Desire,” Stiles says, already half-asleep against Peter’s chest. His voice is quiet and slow, like he can only find the energy to speak by pulling it from his emergency reserves. “There’s tension, because you don’t know how the other person will respond. So much is at stake in a single scene, and you can’t help but wonder if they’ll say the right thing, something that will make their partner want to stay. Plus, you only get one perspective, so it’s a lot like being the protagonist in that moment. You can’t help but want the other person to say yes.”

“That’s very coherent for someone so close to passing out.”

“Shut up,” Stiles says, relaxing into Peter as the arms around him hold tight. By the time the movie ends, he’s asleep, though Peter wishes he were awake, just to gloat that he was obviously too tired to stay up like this. He lets Stiles rest, content to have his heartbeat so close and steady. Peter hates the thought, but he has it all the same: Stiles’ ability to hurt Peter has never been higher. Stiles once chucked a Molotov cocktail at his face and this is more threatening, even if it’s unintentional. The ugly feeling in his stomach is comforted by the reminder that Stiles is returning to the other side of the country soon, giving Peter a few months to condition himself out of whatever compels him to keep the boy close. One perfect Christmas gift shouldn’t be able to drag him into an emotional meltdown. His inhale is ragged as Stiles grinds forward, derailing that thought in favor of a hundred more, wildly different in tone. He’s clearly woken up while Peter was controlling a crisis.

Their position is horizontally mirrored once in bed, and he draws Stiles leg up to have it latch around him, the racing heart not helping his shredded nerves. His hand is being moved. Stiles has pressed his own thumb into the twitching palm, claws snapping out as Peter swallows, his grip placed on fragile hips covered by lean muscle. Stiles urges him to continue and desperate sounds are lost in their mouths, translated by twisting fingers in the werewolf’s hair.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	15. Chapter 15

Peter visits Satomi’s Pack after Scott mentions that she’s considering a treaty. When Talia died, all alliances were broken by default and Scott never thought to reconnect until she reached out. Peter and Derek both go, being the ones that the Alpha knows, though Peter has never been her favorite. They drink tea and meet the members that she’s gathered in the last year. Derek shows interest in the suppression of their nature. Peter doesn’t have the same curiosity but doesn’t plan to disturb their enforced tranquility, so he plays the part of mediator. A mantra has never worked for them because Hales operate best when their anchor is a person or a feeling.

“Anger can control but it can overwhelm. You never find it difficult to stop? To reject revenge and search for peace?”

“Peace is for sheep,” Peter replies, a polite smile on his face as Satomi looks amused. “We’re wolves. I don’t see a reason to pretend otherwise.”

“You’ve always been confident about your gifts, the role they play in your life. If it saved someone, would you give up your powers?”

“No.” It’s immediate and certain, Derek frowning as he looks at his uncle. “I was born a werewolf and I will die one, I have no doubt.”

“Doubt is inevitable.” Peter narrows his eyes, watching her pour another cup of tea. “Did you like the bestiary?”

“What bestiary?” his nephew asks. Satomi looks to him with a small twinkle in her eye, and Peter makes sure to interrupt before she can twist the situation out of his control.

“Stiles made one based on the Ito Pack. I added it to my own.” Derek nods, attention pulled away by one of the children. They tug on his sleeve until he joins them, shifting into the wolf and entering a game of chase. “Define peace,” Peter says, watching them laugh and race around the adults.

“It’s the tangible absence of anxiety. To know who, where, and what you are.” Peter tries to hide how unimpressed he is by the vague response. “Are you certain you’re a beast?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Is a beast capable of real love?”

“…No.”

"I asked Stiles the same question. He disagrees with you.” Peter stays very still, February wind sweeping him into his thoughts.

Stiles shows up the Friday of Easter weekend, a surprise that he hasn’t told anyone about yet. Peter stops him at the door and pulls off the bunny ear head band, raising an eyebrow as Stiles protests.

“I brought chocolate,” he says, holding up a small basket. 

Stiles tells him about working for the FBI, moving up the ladder fast considering the strange lack of field experience. He can’t tell them that he’s been researching and hunting things down since sophomore year, but it makes him look like a prodigy. Peter realizes that the party he mentions was for his birthday, promising Stiles to get him a gift next year that will make his colleagues and roommates jealous. It’s not until he says it that he realizes the words imply a long relationship. 

By the time the basket is empty, Stiles is in his lap on the couch, holding Peter’s jaw as he tilts his head to get closer. Peter moves a hand under the boy’s shirt, fingertips running down his rolling ribs as he takes a deep breath. “I missed this,” Stiles exhales, voice quiet and thick, like he hadn’t meant to talk aloud. Peter grasps the boy’s legs for support and stands, carrying Stiles to the bedroom while he scrambles to hold on with the sudden shift in weight. Tangled in sheets, the werewolf steals a kiss, feeling nails dig into his shoulder and drag down his back. Stiles’ mouth tastes like melted chocolate and chalky candy shells.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	16. Chapter 16

When they’re at the Pack meeting that weekend, Scott complains about the fact that the return flight is for Sunday afternoon. Stiles just shrugs, telling them that he’ll be back in two months. On Sunday, Peter prowls the preserve all morning, finishing up his shower when the door opens, a familiar heartbeat making its way toward the back of the apartment. He steps onto the mat and wraps the towel around his waist as Stiles opens the bathroom door and stops short, staring at Peter in a daze.

The werewolf is equally dumbfounded and decides to mention the obvious. “You’re here. I thought your plane left at noon.”

“Then I guess I’m a good liar.” He laughs as Stiles reaches forward, tugging on the towel to pull him to the bedroom. There’s a proud grin on the boy’s face as he closes the door behind them.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	17. Chapter 17

He’s making coffee when he hears a knock on the door, a stern scent suggesting that the Sheriff is outside. Peter hides his uncertainty when it _is_ Noah, eyes tight as he surveys the inside of the apartment.

“Just give me a minute to get rid of the bodies in my fridge and I’ll invite you in for coffee.” 

The Sheriff frowns, joke falling flat while he stares the werewolf down. Peter can’t explain why he wants to look away. “I saw Stiles’ plane ticket.” He’s less confused now, losing his smirk while the Sheriff shifts in his doorway. “It wasn’t leaving until ten at night. I figured I would find out where he’s been running off to this past year.” Peter doesn’t interrupt, watching the man sigh and look uncomfortable. “He’s grown, it’s his business. I just wanted to know if it was putting him in danger. I didn’t get a clear answer.”

“He’s arguably safer with me than he is with Scott,” Peter says, watching as the Sheriff loses his interrogating expression in surprise. “Scott would forget to feed him.” There’s a moment of tense silence, then Noah nods, mouth twisted like he’s hiding a smile.

“Yeah, he would. You have a nice day, Peter.”

“Will do.” He hears the man leave, a small huff of laughter released when Noah reaches the car. Peter closes his front door, blinking as the coffee machine chimes. That went well.

In June, Scott, Derek, and Peter fly out to see Lydia for her graduation. Jackson is there too, talking with Lydia’s mom and Stiles as the rest of the wolves arrive. There are happy reunions while Peter greets Natalie to mild apprehension.

“Lydia invited me,” he says, making her nod and lose some of the lingering fear. She hasn’t forgiven him for biting her daughter in the first place. He doesn’t mind, it means she’s smart. They watch Lydia walk across stage, Stiles using an airhorn that makes all of the werewolves groan, glaring at him with shielded ears. The boy sits down and apologizes as Scott shoves him away, but there’s a distinct ringing sound that allows them to hold the grudge for over an hour afterwards.

They have a small party, warned by Natalie to refrain from breaking the hotel room. Several times, with threats of violence. They’re supposed to help Lydia clear out her apartment in the morning, which Peter knows is a perk of having friends with supernatural strength and time to kill. Peter gets his own room to avoid their generational definition of fun. He’s reading when there’s a loud thump against his door, a familiar voice whispering his name. The werewolves have all passed out, going by the sound of snoring, which means the wolfsbane-laced alcohol from Jackson did its job. Peter gets up and lets Stiles in, watching the boy stumble forward like he was leaning on the frame.

“Shh! We have to be quiet,” the boy says, speaking louder than usual as he drags Peter back to bed. Stiles is asleep within a minute, arm resting over Peter’s to hold it around himself. Peter pulls him closer. He’s coated in the tang of alcohol, but there’s also weak cologne, a thin layer of anxiety, and a base that reminds the werewolf of crisp snow. Stiles takes a deep breath and sighs, happiness surrounding the rest of his scent.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	18. Chapter 18

“Come on, Scott! It’ll be so much faster if we just switch off driving shifts.”

“I would go even if it didn't sound fun, but I have finals this week. I can’t do a cross-country trip right now.” Everyone is ready to leave the empty apartment, and Stiles has been begging all morning for Scott to join him in the truck. Lydia will take her car back today, but the majority of her stuff and all of Stiles’ stuff is going into a U-Haul that he’s driving to Beacon Hills at the end of the week.

“Derek?” The werewolf shakes his head.

“I promised Malia I would help her move out on Wednesday.”

Stiles groans, draping himself over the kitchen counter in protest. “I have to make the trip alone? Do you realize what happens when I’m alone? The last time I was alone for that long, I was in a train station and had no idea if anyone would ever remember me.” Stiles looks a little hopeful, smiling at Scott until the Alpha shakes his head.

“You can’t use that anymore, Stiles. It was two years ago.”

“It’s called sympathy, Scott.”

Peter steps around the corner of the archway and into the kitchen. “I suppose I can cancel my non-refundable flight and drive a van across the country for a week. I did try to kill you once,” he says, watching as everyone gives him a flat look for bringing that up again. Stiles looks ecstatic though, which is what Peter wanted. 

“Wait, really?”

“If you ask that again, the answer will be no.” Stiles closes his mouth tight, holding a hand up for a high-five that Peter does not indulge.

They spend the week walking around campus and Peter lets Stiles point out all the places he's embarrassed himself in the past year. It’s strange, thinking about someone other than himself. He wonders if Stiles has eaten yet, and brings him food because the answer is no. He forces Stiles to walk through the park when his eyes are strained from reading textbooks and sitting on his computer in the dark. He tells Stiles to use a comb when the fingers he runs through the boy’s hair get tangled too fast. 

It’s a weird week.

When Peter walks into the dorm room, the afternoon they’re supposed to leave, it looks like a bomb went off. He always goes back to the hotel at night, so the mess here is a horrifying surprise.

“You haven’t packed.”

“I was busy?” Peter doesn't fight him on it, moving everything into containers before throwing them in the truck. It’s dark by the time they finish and Stiles gives him a helpless look, like they might as well spend the night and get some sleep.

The curses moaned next to his ear are anything but helpless, making him work to control the shift as he holds Stiles against the wall. Peter slows down, fangs dropping as he can’t find the anger to stay human. When he leans away, Stiles blinks in confusion, placing a hand on Peter’s face. 

“I’m here. Listen to my heartbeat. Focus on it. Come back.” Peter listens, finding the elevated rhythm and staring at the flush in Stiles’ cheeks. The honest attention must be overwhelming him. “I- it’s just me.” Peter feels his humanity return when the voice wavers. This is Stiles, who trips if he walks too fast and is still startled when Peter shows up behind him. The same person who turned down the Bite, what he wanted, because it wasn’t the right thing to do. Fragile, relentless, clever Stiles.

The same person whose lips part in bliss as he’s filled. “Good,” he stammers, crying out when Peter repeats the motion. The werewolf starts again, adjusting for Stiles, who drags him closer, the kiss interrupted by satisfied gasps.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	19. Chapter 19

He’s sitting in the truck, staring at his hand as it shifts back and forth. Peter keeps the claws out for a moment, bringing up Kate and Talia and lying in a hospital bed for six years. There’s nothing. If anything, he feels less controlled, the other hand digging into his leg before he pulls it free. Stiles enters the werewolf’s thoughts, hands dragging over his skin and through his hair as he hears his name on repeat. He thinks about the way Stiles laughs when he gets his way, Peter giving in when the boy gets a hand on him, and then the claws are gone. Not good. 

The passenger door opens, Stiles hopping inside and buckling up as he talks. “Why they have one line for check-out is beyond me. Hundreds of kids and only one desk? It’s insane.” He looks at Peter, surprised to find the man staring. “What’s up?” 

Peter starts the engine with a smirk. “Just thinking. It’s a flawed system.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” He listens as Stiles talks about his final grades and how grateful he is to be done for the year. They trade off at the twelve-hour mark, stopping to eat before switching seats and starting again. It takes them three days with music, conversation, or silence filling the hours. When they get tired of sitting, they find a park, walking around or laying in the grass, Stiles all too pleased to use Peter as a pillow. Sometimes he dozes off, and the werewolf tears the grass up around them and fights a scream. 

He’s getting too close. If he faces it, he’s already too close. This isn’t like him. He’s never had the urge to do this, not even with Stiles, but he finds that he doesn’t care enough to deny the boy when it makes him smile.

At some point, he mentions the woman that left her number after the night in November, and Stiles mentions how strange it is that he had the same experience with a dude from the club in Beacon Hills. They’re less hesitant about the conversation topic after that, and if Peter leaves more bite marks than usual, no one would have to know. He wonders what’s so bad about this, about having this, why he ran from it for so long.

They drive back into town, Stiles listing things they can do together now that he’s here for the summer. His thumb is moving over Peter’s knuckle, hands clasped together over the armrest. Stiles’ voice stops when they’re a block away from the Martin house. The windows are down, so they’re close enough to hear Scott shouting for Liam to pass the ball and the happy chatter of everyone else as they attend a barbecue, going by the scent.

“They’re here,” Scott shouts, dropping his lacrosse stick as he runs around the front of the house and waves from the sidewalk, joined a few seconds later by his betas. Peter’s hand flexes, an instinct that he catches a second too late, only to find that his hand is already empty. Stiles has shoved his own door open and Peter is forced to slam on the brakes, watching him grin as he runs toward the rest of the Pack and gets circled by a crowd that’s eager to hug. 

A wave of pain curls up Peter arm, and he glances down to see claws embedded in the meat of his palm, fist curled tight around nothing. He withdraws them carefully, keeping the bloody limb away from the steering wheel as he parks by the Martin’s driveway. Peter grabs his jacket off the backseat, scrubbing at the cuts as they heal and leave him with slightly pink skin.

The keys are caught mid-air as Derek puts up a hand. Over the hood of the truck, he looks to his uncle, who quietly shuts the driver-side door and bundles the jacket under a mended grip. “Your problem now,” Peter says, trying to look annoyed.

“Where are you headed?”

“Home.” 

It’s not a lie. That’s where he goes, for the moment. Peter empties the fridge and stops the mail, trading his larger suitcase for the smaller one he had brought on the trip. He’s setting it by the door and making sure all the lights are off as there’s a knock on the door. The suitcase is pushed out of sight before Peter thinks about doing it, and he puts on his unaffected face to let Stiles inside.

“Hey, I thought you’d stick around for a minute.”

“At a lawn party? I’m starting to realize that we don’t know each other at all,” Peter says, watching Stiles shift out of his flannel.

“Okay, I _hoped_ you would. Are you busy?”

“You tell me,” Peter says, closing the door. Stiles tosses the shirt aside and he heads for the kitchen.

“Not quite what I meant, but I appreciate the thought. We could get started on that movie list you were talking about on the road.” Peter had planned an extended marathon during the trip, a system to show Stiles plenty of films over the course of the summer. His suitcase is still in the hall closet, waiting for an answer as much as Stiles is while reaching into the pantry. Peter scratches his palm.

“We’ll start with screwball comedies,” he says, trying not to think about it. 

That’s why it’s all he can think about for the next hour, watching Stiles laugh and making his own weak one-liners to seem interested. In reality, he isn’t even seeing the screen, fingers tapping against every available surface until Stiles calls him out on it. “See, there’s a button here that lets you stop the movie when you have to break for the bathroom.”

Peter thinks about expectations, empty hands and beds. He kisses Stiles in response, trying to figure out why his chest is aching with the need to be seen. Stiles lets it go, even drags a hand over Peter’s neck, but that same touch moves down to the werewolf’s shoulder and makes him lean back with a light push. It turns out Stiles’ phone was vibrating, and he turns off the alarm before taking the remote to pause their movie. Peter asks about the interruption as Stiles circles the couch to pick up his discarded flannel.

“Sorry, I promised Scott I’d go out with him and the others tonight. I’ll be back. Leave the door unlocked, okay?” Peter snarls without a sound and keeps his mouth closed tight, vaulting the back of the couch to intercept as Stiles reaches the door. Wide eyes blink at him as he slides the chain into place. 

His tongue moves over his teeth to make sure they’re blunt before speaking. “As much as I enjoy educating you on entertainment that isn’t superhero movies and video games, there’s something else we can do right now.”

“Why do you think I’m coming back?” Stiles asks, reaching for the lock. He stops short when Peter slides a hand around his waist, dragging the shirt up enough to settle a broad hand on the small of his back.

“Call and cancel,” Peter says, leaning in to kiss him again. It’s a distraction, and he lifts the phone out of Stiles’ pocket, glancing at the screen as he mouths a line down the boy’s neck. “It’s one night,” he adds, Scott’s number already dialed as he steps back and holds it by Stiles’ ear.

“Hey! We just pulled up. Are you inside?” Scott asks, a door slamming as Malia calls his name. Peter holds his breath, Stiles opening his mouth just to close it again, scrubbing a hand through his hair and letting his face scrunch up while he stalls.

“Uh… I don’t think I’m going to join you guys, actually. I’m exhausted from the trip and everything. Next time, I swear I’m there.”

Peter smiles, leaning in as Stiles rolls his eyes. The phone is held away while he kisses Peter, pushing him back against the door as Scott protests. “Stiles, this was your idea! What’s going on?”

“Nothing! Just tired, you know how I get. One minute I can run a mile and the next I could sleep forever.”

“Yeah, when you were fifteen. Are you with someone?”

Stiles glances at Peter, then turns around to face the hall. “No.”

“You know I can hear you lying, Stiles. Come on, who is it?” A surge of confidence rises from the hand Stiles has laid over Peter’s chest and the werewolf leans forward, ready to announce his presence and intentions, whether Scott likes it or not. He breathes in.

“Nobody,” Stiles says before walking away. “It’s not important.” He turns the corner into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked as he continues assuring Scott that he’s fine but won’t be joining them. Peter’s mouth falls shut as the air rushes out. There’s a small dish on the table beside him and Peter reaches over, hears the metal scrape against ceramic, gripping his car key until it hurts. The DVD screensaver pops on, drawing his attention to the abandoned TV. Stiles chose to stick around, and Peter-

“Yeah, this weekend. I got it. No excuses,” Stiles says, giving the werewolf a look that means the promise extends to him as well. “Okay, have fun.” He hangs up, pushing the phone back into his pocket. “I just got a lecture and it’s all your fault,” Stiles says to him. “You’ve got your wish though, so I can’t argue with your methods. What evil plans do you have in store for me?” Stiles feels the smile against the side of his head when he wraps his arms around the werewolf’s neck and lets Peter hold their combined weight. There’s a soft sound as the key is set down, but Stiles doesn’t hear it, unaware of the internal battle behind the decision. Peter returns the embrace.

“I’m sure I can think of something.”

Stiles drifts to sleep with his head cushioned on Peter’s shoulder, the werewolf’s hand tracing patterns against his back. He thinks about the group hug from earlier and the way Derek’s eyes darted to the bloody jacket in Peter’s hands, letting him go without asking about it. Across the room, one of his dresser drawers remains half-open, forgotten in his haste to leave. He didn’t want to stick around, to be bled slow by clinging to the hope that he can have what he wants most. It takes him this long to notice, but his finger is moving in the shape of a triskelion on Stiles’ skin.

The werewolf pulls himself free, getting dressed and looking at the bed, the gift that couldn’t be given waiting there for him to accept. He locks the door on his way out.

Satomi frowns when she sees him on the doorstep at sunrise. He’s welcomed in anyway, given a cup of tea, and stared at until he’s uncomfortable.

“You were right,” Peter says, his smile reluctant and a weak attempt at nonchalance.

“That doesn’t mean you were entirely wrong.” 

He stares at the leaves that swirl and settle in the bottom of his drink. Later that night, there's the flight he booked to South America and Peter shows up on Cora’s doorstep at sunrise, her expression similar to Satomi’s frown. “Why does nobody seem happy to see me?”

“Derek called, said you ran away again.”

“Yes,” Peter says, resting his hands on his hips. “When will you people learn? That’s what I do. Often and without warning.”

“He also said to slam the door in your face if you showed up.” 

“Are you going to ask me why?” Cora shakes her head and Peter sighs. “Good. I’ll be at the beach if you need me.” As he changes to a swimsuit and goes for the door, he hears Cora talking to Derek on the phone. He should have known that his nephew would disapprove, at least a little.

“Yeah, he’s here. I’ll let you know if he leaves.”

“Narc,” Peter calls into the house, hearing her slam the bedroom door shut. He spends the day at the beach, feeling that no place should be this hot on purpose. He’ll have to move on by July if he doesn’t want to fuse with the plastic of the chair. Around mid-afternoon, the sun on his skin is blocked and he puts on sunglasses, looking up at the obstacle with narrowed eyes. “You’re going to ask.”

“I’m going to tell,” Cora says, sitting down next to his knees and scooting back until he moves them aside. “Stiles called me last night. I didn’t even know he still had my number, but he called.” Peter leans back against the chair, closing his eyes as she speaks. “He asked if you had mentioned anything about a vacation. I told him that you hadn’t, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to show up anyway. Fair warning never stopped you before.” Peter smiles. “I asked why he called. He told me you owed him twenty bucks and he wanted to know when he could collect.” He’s not feeling so amused anymore. “I could hear his heartbeat. He was lying, so I asked him why he cared. He said he didn’t, another lie.” Peter’s head pounds as she continues, keeping his eyes closed, even when he feels them glowing. “I asked him if he was in love with you.” 

Peter sits up, pushing a hand over her mouth and staring through his sunglasses, watching gold eyes flare back in challenge. “It’s not polite to just ask people things like that.” He frowns, blinking away the shift and relaxing as he removes the brief muzzle. “Didn’t Talia teach you anything?”

“Laura was her favorite. I barely remember what she sounded like, much less what she tried to scold me for.”

“She was good at scolding,” Peter sighs, pushing the glasses up into his hair. “I need a break. I’m taking one. If it bothers you, I can go.”

“I’m just trying to figure out what you need a break from.” He shifts under her scrutiny.

“It doesn’t matter. This could have blown up long before now, made a lot of things worse. What we have is enough, when you look at it that way.”

“What do you have now?”

“Sex,” Peter says, laughing as she flinches and gags, trying to get away. A tourist startles when Cora snatches the napkin from their hand and covers her mouth. “You’re too nosy, and it’ll get you into trouble someday. Consider that a warning.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Ouch, that’s a new one,” he says, waving as she stomps away in disgust. Peter closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, gathering the ocean, margaritas, and Cora, who smells like pine. It reminds him of the Preserve. It reminds him of Beacon Hills.

He stays for a month, letting himself concentrate on the real problem. His wolf hates every second, and the lust-soaked people that won’t leave him alone almost get gouged when his control snaps. When he inevitably returns, he’ll just turn Stiles away, because what they had wasn’t enough and it never will be. He manages to fall asleep the night before his flight, worries soothed and decisions made.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed. And it’s okay.


	20. Chapter 20

He’s walking up the stairs of his apartment when he hears the heartbeat inside, fast and familiar. 

Of course. Peter swears to not let him in next time and the moment that’s decided, Stiles is already waiting there. The apartment door opens without a sound, and Peter pushes the suitcase in first, a terrible attempt to shield himself. When the door is finally shut and locked, Stiles stands up from the couch and wipes his hands on his jeans, smelling terrified. It doesn’t make this any easier.

He turns to watch as Stiles walks closer, mouth opening to speak before he closes it again. They collide, the werewolf bringing a hand to Stiles’ hip before moving up and over, settling against his skin like a brand. They tumble into the bedroom easily, no frantic stripping required. He wants to take his time, and so Peter does, freeing Stiles from the flannel before helping with the shirt, lips trailing over the freckles of his shoulder. They move to their own clothes, watching and working until they land together again.

Stiles’ voice echoes, rounded whines and soft moans spilling into the werewolf’s ears. Peter shifts higher, leaning over Stiles as a warm hand finds his spine, dragging up with the rasp of friction until it reaches his shoulder blade. The other passes over his neck and Peter is brought down for a kiss. He takes the distraction, pushing in as he moves his mouth down, biting softly along the exposed neck. A hand is placed on Stiles’ waist, tilting it up and waiting for the nails on his back to carve over skin. Peter stays there, giving Stiles more as he asks for it. He leaves marks along the slim hips and pale throat. 

He stays close until the end, drawing out of Stiles’ arms and pulling the blanket out from beneath him. When they’re both settled under it, the werewolf urges Stiles to come back in against him, placing his hand on the boy’s jaw, thumb passing over his cheekbone.

“Tomorrow,” he whispers, bumping their foreheads together as the arm moves to wrap around Stiles’ back, triskelions putting them both to sleep. He wants this more than he thought, and it’s something he’s willing to fight for, even if it goes wrong. 

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.

He sits up, his hand dragging over abandoned sheets. His fingertips leave no marks, human and harmless against the fabric. The fire burned a lot out of him. This moment torches what was left behind.


	21. Chapter 21

Satomi lets him in readily this time, smiling as he lifts the bestiary from his bag. He drinks tea under the moon and watches her finish a sketch that hadn’t been completed in time for Christmas. They take a walk, and when she asks about the others, he finds himself unable to answer, words caught in his throat like they've never been before. The Alpha invites him to stay and Peter knows that it’s pity. He accepts.

“What’s all this?” 

Peter looks out over the sea of boxes in his apartment. “They had a sale on cardboard.” Stiles gets that he’s joking and ignores it, brain working overtime to process what’s going on.

“Are you- You’re moving.”

“Yes, Stiles, I’m moving.”

“Where?”

“For right now, into Satomi’s territory. Most of this will go into the vault until I find a place of my own. That’s why I called you over here. You left things that I didn’t want to throw away without warning you.” Peter says, heading into the bedroom and turning to find Stiles right behind him. Stiles is smiling, a little mischief in the corners, but plastered on for Peter’s benefit. The werewolf doesn’t let on that he sees through the disguise.

“I could take it in the morning.” 

Peter lifts the box off his cleared nightstand and places it in Stiles’ arms, as gently as he can. “Tempting, but it’s best we stop our ‘involvement’ now. I plan to head out by tonight and there’s still plenty of packing to get through.” He walks past, steeling his nerves to get to the end of this. The breakable items are lined up in the living room and Peter uses newspaper to cushion them in the boxes. He hears Stiles follow him back out, placing the gathered items by the door before wavering beside the couch.

“Did Cora say anything about me?”

“No, did something happen?” He continues wrapping the vase, looking up when the boy doesn’t respond. “Stiles?”

“Hm? No. I, uh…” Stiles claps like he just thought of something. “I asked her to update you on the Pack. New kid, named Alec. He seems harmless, if naïve. Reminds me of sophomore Scott, actually.” 

“Oh. Where’d you pick him up?”

“Running from hunters. Scott tracked him down and we’re trying to figure out who bit him, but he’s been chased for the last few weeks, lost a lot of time.”

“Satomi’s Pack is thin for the same reason. If he ever needs space to breathe, let him know she’s an option.” Stiles nods, hands hanging useless at his side. It’s rare that they’re still, and Peter doesn’t allow himself to worry about it.

“Why move? You could just visit her, like you’ve done before.”

“I think we can both agree, I have no good memories in Beacon Hills.” That wasn’t fair, but Peter is too busy being grateful that his voice hasn’t cracked yet to notice. “Burned, killed, tortured, forgotten. I’m starting think it’s less about me and more about my surroundings. Besides, I’m sure you’ll all be relieved once I’m gone.” Stiles’ head aborts a shake. “Scott hates me, and I don’t blame him. We should just be glad he never found out about us. He’d probably kill me again,” Peter says, taping a box shut so he can keep his back to Stiles. He can’t face him.

“It wouldn’t have been so bad,” Stiles says, trying a laugh that just makes him sound sick. “If he found out, I mean. You’ve changed, everyone can tell.”

“Yes, but I can only change so much. I won’t try to kill him again, for Malia’s sake, but that doesn’t mean I’ve earned his undying trust. The Hale power, my family’s werewolf inheritance, I still think it belongs to me.”

“You don’t.” He sounds so certain, and it gives Peter some of his strength back.

“I don’t think it belongs with him, at least. Malia, maybe. Derek, now that he’s matured. Live and let die, I suppose.” He finds a Sharpie in the kitchen, scribbling on the sides of the box as a distraction, even though he won’t need to remember what’s inside. Stiles doesn’t know, but Peter is keeping the apartment. He just won’t be living in it anymore, keeping the space as an emergency residence, in case they call him back for the Apocalypse and/or Armageddon.

“Peter, what I told Cora was that-”

He cuts Stiles off, “Can I have your copy of the key?” It’s a cruel twist of the knife, but he would rather they take it in the stomach now than the heart later. At least the gut provides a chance of recovery. Peter holds out a hand after capping the marker and Stiles takes a deep breath, then nods. It would fail as miserably as everything else has, if Peter let it be said, let Stiles say the words. They can’t be more, so they have to be less.

“Yeah, no problem.” His fingers fumble it twice on the ring and Peter’s hand twitches, wanting to step forward and hold him steady.

“Thanks,” the werewolf says, tucking it into his pocket and packing again. 

With a nod, Stiles goes to leave, struggling with the box and the handle until Peter walks over to open the door. “Um, call me if you…change your mind.” Peter nods, giving him a small wave. 

“Will do.”

Stiles parks, letting his hands slide off the wheel to land in his lap. Peter ended it. That’s good. It means no more clandestine meetings or taking multiple showers a day to keep the secret from sensitive noses. That’s bad. He won’t be able to see Peter when he wants, to make him laugh or eat with him in the dark. There won’t be movies on the couch, reading in the office, or getting close just because he can. No more soft bite marks left on his skin or strong hands reeling him in when he feels alone. That’s very bad.

There’s a tap against the window, and he rolls it down to find Lydia, hair shining in the afternoon sun. Another lesson learned. “Did you tell him?”

“He knows, saved me the embarrassment of saying it and getting turned down.”

“What does that mean?”

The gearshift clicks as he throws the car into park and yanks out the keys. “It means you were right. He’s leaving, because it was nice while it lasted but Peter Hale doesn’t get attached to anyone or anything.” Stiles steps out of the Jeep, slamming the door and letting his back lean against it. “Please, just say it now.” _I told you so._

“I’m sorry.” That’s all she says. After a moment, his shoulders sag with relief. He can’t understand why, but it feels like she’s disappointed in him. It’s not like anything he did would change Peter’s mind.

“Thank you.” She nods, taking his keys and pushing him toward her own car.

“Let’s go, I have a shopping spree and dinner reservation with your name on it.”

Later that night, Satomi stays quiet as she wraps Peter’s shattered and bloody hands, fragments of his bones lodged in trees outside the tent.

“Most of your betas follow Buddhism. Can a person even be taught religion?”

“No, but it can be learned.”

“That’s suitably cryptic.”

“So is love.”

“Look at that, I’m learning already.” She tightens the grip on his wrist and Peter yelps.

He gets a new phone and gives Malia the number. After two months of nothing on the radar, Cora visits Beacon Hills, stopping at Satomi’s hideout on the way home. His niece hugs him only once, but stares at Peter like he needs them all the time. She also programs her number into his phone.

“You’re more like yourself,” Cora says, watching their bonfire as the gathering celebrates around them. Peter thinks it’s someone’s birthday. “The uncle we remember.”

“You know, I never liked him.”

“We still do.”

A pack from Northern California comes to make an alliance with Scott, which Peter only hears about when one of the betas stops by to see Satomi. They’re old friends, but she couldn’t convince her Alpha to make an alliance when the Ito Pack is still so diminished from the hunters’ massacre. She’s gossiping about the first meeting, stating that Scott was a bit unpracticed in ceremony but had the ex-Nogitsune helping out. 

That’s how they refer to Stiles in the supernatural community, and the more superstitious ones believe he’s still possessed, as the stain of the spirit can never be removed. When Peter had a discussion with the hunters who spread that nonsense, their opinion became wildly unpopular. The Nogitsune incident was over four years ago, and Peter still remembers how dead Stiles looked, smelled, seemed.

He distracts himself with the young wolves, teaching them control based on what Satomi’s been teaching him. It doesn’t work well, not like anger, but it’s better than losing control on the full moon. He doesn’t want to think about his anchor dying in the past, present, or future.

For Halloween, he runs, trying to release the buzz under his skin that comes with his memories. Last July, when Stiles ordered costumes online and spent an hour interrogating Peter to find the best one. The way he laughed and refused to answer when Peter asked how much he spent on all 10 outfits. How he finally admitted that it was upwards of 200 dollars after Peter reeled him in by pulling on his utility belt. 

Peter trips and shifts back to human when he hits the ground, his half-growl sounding closer to a resigned huff. One of the other betas smiles while snapping his shoulder back into place. Apparently, his glare has become ineffective.

When a Pack twice their size attacks, the Alpha manages to incapacitate Satomi while she’s busy defending the others. Peter takes down their bitten Alpha, holding it by the neck as everyone stops.

“Get lost or he dies,” Peter spits, his full shift making them retreat in mixed disappointment and fear. He locks the intruder up, calling Malia and getting Scott on the line to put the alliance in effect. Satomi’s whole pack is terrified, and Peter moves them into her tent, speeding the woman’s healing process while calming the restless betas. 

The only problem is that Peter didn’t realize it was Thanksgiving weekend, and everyone from Parrish to Corey shows up, ready to fight. They seem surprised to see the betas flocking to Peter, bothering him with constant questions that he answers with his own form of irritated assistance. Scott follows him to the underground lock-up, watching the Alpha scowl at them through the mountain ash cage. When his red eyes flash, Scott frowns in confusion.

“You’re the one who beat him?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t kill him.”

Peter stares. “You haven’t gone blind, have you, Scott?” 

The whole Pack watches him for the rest of the day, their clear bafflement coming from the fact that Peter didn’t claim the power for himself. He briefs Satomi on their plan, hearing her smile as he mentions working with Chris, Derek, and Stiles to draft a treaty.

“I will put salt in your tea,” Peter says, not looking up from the papers in his lap. She laughs, the beta toddler on her lap giggling along. They talk to the Alpha, letting him know about the alliance, and the hell it would raise if he goes around attacking other Packs. This werewolf isn’t like Ennis or Kali: he was just used to getting what he wanted without a fight. Peter lets him know that next time, it won’t be a merciful ending. They have enough trouble from rogue hunters without going after each other. 

Part of the deal with the Alpha is to release betas in his Pack that want to leave, so Satomi has three new werewolves to teach. The rest sulk away and Peter is pleased, thanking Scott without using the exact words. As much as he hates to admit it, there wouldn’t have been any peace without the McCall Pack’s record of stopping the “bad guys”. The Ito Pack sends Scott and the others home with meals that they prepared. Peter is nowhere to be found, having said his goodbye to Malia before escaping into the woods. There are a few papers handed to him when he returns. Peter realizes that they’re from Stiles, detailing creatures they’ve run into for the Ito bestiary.

“It was childish,” Satomi scolds. “That boy misses you like a limb.”

“Would you prefer an awkward farewell?”

“I’d prefer that you return to him while you still can.”

Peter frowns, waiting a moment to respond. “You know I love when you go Yoda, but I have literally no idea what that means.”

“We’re cursed with seeing the people we love die around us as we live past our intended lifespan. He’s human, Peter. He may not be around when you finally decide to act on your feelings instead of suppressing them.”

“Maybe.” He picks at the edge of the pages, hands running over the fresh writing. “I couldn’t watch him leave.” 

“Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

“I’ll close my eyes next time.” Satomi sighs, agreeing to sketch something new based on a creature in the notes that prompted her memory. He’s grateful when it’s not brought up again. 

For Christmas, Satomi kicks him out of camp, forcing him to make the drive back to Beacon Hills. He stops at the Loft, handing Derek his own gift and one for Malia.

“You aren’t coming to the party later?” 

Peter is almost amused by the question. “When have I ever suggested that I would want to spend my time partying with teenagers?”

“You do realize they’re in their twenties now.”

“Most of them still have the minds of teens, Derek.” As Peter goes to leave, he sees Derek mouth words, like he has something else to say. It’s not unusual for his nephew to doubt himself, but to hold back for Peter’s sake is strange enough to pause and wait it out. “Why did you assume I would attend?”

“Cora called. She says that you’ve become an acceptable member of society, and strangely enough, I agree with her. Since Malia invited you, I thought you would accept.” Derek picks up the larger gift that contains a laptop Malia mentioned last month. “Maybe give this to her in person?”

“No, I’m sure the gift will be enough. Merry Christmas,” Peter replies, walking out of the loft. Then he gets a bad idea.

Why is he here? The hastily wrapped book in his hand answers that, but Peter hates it. He pretends not to know why he’s standing outside the McCall home, far enough that they wouldn’t be able to hear his heartbeat over the noise inside. It all sounds very merry. 

He could walk away. Leave the package on the Stilinski doorstep and miss out on another holiday. He wouldn’t have to see the smug look on Derek’s face, or the wary expression of everyone else who knows that Peter shows up when he has an ulterior motive. The only problem is that it’s a full moon tonight, so his anchor is close, but not close enough. Peter wants. 

He wants to knock on the door and be let inside. He wants to drink coffee, and talk to Stiles, and watch movies with Malia. He wants to see them smile as they open their gifts. He wants Derek to tell Cora that he has changed, or maybe hasn’t at all, but instead come back to himself. Most of all, he wants them to believe it, but he can’t just say all of that. It wouldn’t be a very Peter thing to do.

So he knocks on the door.

“I’ll get it!” It sounds like someone is talking around a sugar cookie, and sure enough, when Stiles opens the door, his cheeks are stretched to fit around one. With some rapid chewing and a swallow that sounds like it hurt, he tries to speak. “Peter.”

“Surprise,” he says, feeling the strange urge to leave as fast as possible.

Malia walks past, drinks in hand. She gives a strange nod in greeting due to her lack of available limbs. “Hey, you’re late.”

“How can I be late if I wasn’t planning to attend?”

“Derek said you would be here an hour ago.” The underhanded conversation to get him here would be unfair if Peter hadn’t spent years doing the same thing. He’s almost proud, but Derek is definitely smug when he sees his uncle enter the room. The less anticipated part is that everyone else doesn’t react with suspicion, like seeing Peter at group holiday parties is a perfectly normal thing. Scott even smiles at him before threatening the DVD player to work or get smashed against the closest wall. Peter narrows his eyes, senses tuned to figure out what the other shoe is before it drops.

“Uh, here.” 

Peter turns, finding Stiles with a wrapped rectangular box, similar to the one from last year. In fact, they’re close enough in appearance that Peter doesn’t reach for it, stuck in a wash of memories that he struggles to mask in his scent.

“It’s more pages, based on the Argent and Calavera bestiaries. There are some drawings attached. I thought it would be nice to add entries that aren’t limited to California.”

“It would be nice,” Peter says, his smile brief and tight as he carefully takes the gift. “Thank you.” His armor goes up like a wall as Stiles is called to the kitchen, feeling several eyes on him that look away when he checks over his shoulder. The weight in his arms lifts by a fraction, and he sees Derek by the Christmas tree, setting the gift for Stiles underneath. Light-fingered bastard. “You were always my least favorite,” he says, watching Derek shrug.

“Movie’s starting,” Scott yells, bringing people out of the woodwork. The room is suddenly packed, but Peter notices a surprising absence in the group. Just his luck, Stiles is now alone in the kitchen. The werewolf watches from the island for a minute, because he can get away with it.

Or not. “Don’t be weird,” Stiles says, trying to close the oven with full hands and almost dropping the ham. Peter’s there to save it, burning his hands to throw it onto the counter. “Oh, my god. Here, here.” His hands are shoved under the running faucet, and Stiles looks over the red skin. Peter is in a house full of werewolves, which means he heals fast, and the hand is whole before Stiles turns off the water. He runs a hand over the uninjured palm in relief and Peter lets him, waiting until Stiles realizes what he’s doing to pull back.

“Uh, thanks. Do you want to…” Stiles gestures to a bowl of vegetables.

Peter nods, pulling the carrots free and lining them up on the cutting board. “Where’s the Sheriff?”

“He was called out for a burglary, half an hour ago. Parrish too. Crime doesn’t take holidays, I guess.” Stiles bounces around like a pinball, clearly using multiple trains of thought to get everything ready. A knife is handed over in the rush and Peter starts to work. Besides being a little formal, their conversation continues as it has since they started sleeping together, no awkward moments giving them away to their apparently captive audience. Peter checks again, and at least three heads turn back to the TV, like they weren’t watching him at all. 

“I don’t want to assign blame here, but I’m starting to think it’s your fault that everyone has been staring at me since I arrived.” Stiles slams his finger in a drawer, curses hissed under his breath as he holds the digit against his stomach. Peter reaches out and takes the pain. This became a habit after the third time Stiles bumped into the furniture hard enough to move it at Peter’s apartment, and he’s relieved when the boy relaxes under his touch.

“Thank you. Again.” The werewolf lets go, still waiting for an answer. “Yeah, that may have been caused by me. Something I said.”

The werewolf goes back to chopping. “Be a bit more specific, Stiles. Do I need to buy a vowel?”

“I told them that we dated for a year.”

With a heavy snap, the cutting board is splintered down the center, and Peter stares at the knife’s edge against the countertop.

“You’re not allowed to destroy my house on Christmas,” Melissa insists from the archway, lifting the utensil out of Peter’s hands before she shoves him toward the living room. “I expect a new board by next week.” Peter nods, still dazed as he looks over to Stiles. The boy’s mouth is opening to explain as Melissa elbows him in the side and gestures for the stuffing. “Let’s go, we got people to feed! Werewolves, actually, and that’s harder.”

Peter turns, at least five pairs of eyes turning with him, and he feels like there should be whistling to make them all seem innocent. “Well, you were all listening. Nothing to say?” The werewolves are suddenly unable to hear anything, eyes locked on the movie. Lydia _shushes_ him. “Scott?”

The Alpha does acknowledge Peter, shrugging in a very anti-climactic way. He’s tempted to unplug the TV, because he thinks it would get a bigger reaction. Peter sits down next to Malia, waiting for her to mention it, but she seems to be sincerely interested in the movie instead. Someone is conspiring against him when dinner is served, and he suspects that it’s everyone else in the room, because he ends up in the seat next to Stiles. It’s fine. Then a plate of cookies comes around and when Stiles offers it, Peter hesitates. Thoughts of warm skin and a wet mouth threaten to spread to his scent, but he hasn’t been a werewolf for this long without learning to hide certain impulses and emotions. 

“I’m in hell,” he decides, whispering the confirmation under his breath as he accepts with a smile, almost flinging the dish into Theo’s hands just to get it away from himself. Stiles has the same memory issue after licking the remains of a cookie off his thumb, doing a remarkable job of covering the feeling in his scent with accurate embarrassment.

Peter decides to leave soon, knowing that to stay any longer is just waiting for a disaster. Malia had already finished eating and opens her gift, smiling like Peter thought she would. They’re not emotional people, but she attempts it. Even he wouldn’t turn his daughter down for a hug on Christmas. He helps her with the start-up configuration, watching Stiles open his impromptu gift. Peter isn’t holding any breakable glassware that can be dropped and he’s grateful, because Stiles’ smile curves like it did before. There’s a quiet huff of amusement, fracturing something in the werewolf’s chest that he had forgotten was there.

“We had the same idea, that’s awesome.” Stiles holds up the South American folklore book that Peter found when visiting Cora over the summer, one he intended to give as a parting gift.

“Yes, an interesting coincidence. I have things to do, so I’m heading out.” He turns to Malia. “If the laptop breaks, let me know, I have a warranty.” His parting insults are becoming life hacks from a middle-aged dad, and Peter pouts about it as he walks to the door.

“Merry Christmas,” Stiles says, making Peter turn around. He still looks happy, but Peter has a feeling it’s all looks.

“And a Happy New Year,” the werewolf replies, lifting the unwrapped present as a small wave.

At his apartment, Peter unbinds the bestiary, adding the new pages and taking a moment to read through them before putting it all back together. It doesn’t quite fit when he returns it to the storage box, and he realizes that it must have been pulled tighter the first time, precious care taken to make sure that the connection was strong, secure. Safe.

He leaves the book on his island counter, telling himself to find a new place for it tomorrow.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.


	22. Chapter 22

He wakes up for a reason though, struggling into a shirt while half-asleep. The kitchen light is off, but with moonlight as a guide, Stiles is staring at the book in front of him, bestiary opened to the place of the added pages.

“Explain it to me.”

“It bothered you enough to break into my apartment?” Stiles’ shrug is minuscule, but Peter knows his shoulders well enough, even under the clothes. “I’m a temperamental creature of the night and you’ve decided to confront me at 3 AM.”

“You’d be gone by tomorrow.” Peter can’t refute that.

“What do you want me to say?”

Stiles pushes the book aside, leaning against the island in earnest confusion. “Literally anything, okay? Tell me something that isn’t another excuse to leave when you get scared.”

“At least I leave during the day, like a polite or even considerate person might.” Peter stands a little taller after he says it, not wanting Stiles to know that it was supposed to stay in his head.

“I don’t remember you asking me to stay.”

“You’re smart, Stiles. Enough to realize that I don’t ask for ridiculous things like that.”

“Maybe you should try it.”

“I did. I asked for tomorrow. I thought you might be able to wait until the sun came up to have a rational discussion about our relationship.”

Stiles shakes his head. “When you left for Cora’s, I waited here for the entire day. Sat around reading, watched movies, ordered food. See, I was the dumbass who thought you had an emergency, because I couldn’t think of a single reason why you would leave after the week that we had, after making plans to spend time together.”

“Plans that couldn’t disappear fast enough when you saw Scott and your pals.”

“This isn’t about them,” Stiles groans, hand gesturing to the door like they’re right outside. “This is about you pushing me away whenever you feel like it. Why didn’t you just ask me to stay?”

“I did,” Peter snaps, feeling thoroughly cornered and out of patience. “I let you into my apartment, I spent holidays with you, I dropped whatever I was doing to be here when you were around. What more do you want from me, Stiles?”

“You know, some communication would be nice? Verbal confirmation that I’m not jumping to conclusions from those very neutral actions because I want to believe that I’m anything more than a convenience to you.” 

Peter stares. “A convenience.”

“I started to believe that you felt something. Then you flew to South America the day after I mentioned making plans instead of being a fuck buddy. When you got back, I was going to end it because I thought you were, but then things went back to normal. You said tomorrow, I figured you wanted me to come over the next night, so I sat in your dark apartment for hours and waited. Again. You didn’t come back, and the next week, you were moving out. Was I supposed to beg you to stay after being left behind on purpose?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Peter says.

“I just… want to understand. We clearly weren’t on the same page, and in order to get some sleep at night, I need to know that this was mutual. The breaking up part.” He nods for Peter to sit down across the island but the werewolf just leans against the counter, making Stiles sigh. “If I had been there, in the morning, would it have changed anything?”

“Maybe. For the sake of honesty, I also never thought Scott would be so indifferent about it.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. “It doesn’t really matter what he thinks because it’s not his relationship, Peter. I very rarely listen when he tells me to do something anyway.”

“You wouldn’t listen at first, but you care about him to an arguably excessive degree. His opinion could have changed your mind one day.”

“What, are you jealous?” He’s been around Stiles too long, and the half-second of hesitation gives the boy an epiphany. The book slams shut as Stiles lays his hand on the cover and pushes it aside. 

Peter cuts in before Stiles can continue. “I am not jealous of anyone or anything, least of all Scott. Don’t you dare read into that sentence. I am perfectly happy with my current status and buy things to keep it that way, so I don’t need anything that I don’t already have.”

“I’m sure you can get whatever it is you need, Peter. But you wanted me,” Stiles says. Another pause.

“Try present tense.” Stiles doesn’t breathe, and it lasts for long enough that Peter gets concerned. “Or don’t.”

“No, no, I’m going to,” Stiles reassures, leaning forward as Peter resists the instinct to pull away. His eyes move over the werewolf’s face, like he can read a lie. “This is when you’re supposed to give your speech.”

“My…speech.” Stiles just waits. “Fine. This could end badly. In fact, our relationship is anything but convenient,” Peter says. “I won’t list the many ways this could go wrong because I’m sure you’ve considered them; it’s in your nature.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t interrupt.” Peter says, watching Stiles’ mouth open in protest. “You’re not jumping to conclusions about anything. If you believe that something I do means that I like you and want you to stay, then you’re probably not wrong. It’s also in your nature to gather evidence and figure things out without being asked. If you get all that through your head and warn me when you leave before sunrise…you can have your copy of the key back.”

Stiles tilts his head a little, lips pressed together as he takes a deep breath. “After a few years of getting my copied keys confiscated, I learned to print two and only keep one on the ring. So, technically, I still have a key to your place-”

He ruins the kiss by laughing too hard, dragged off the stool as Peter pulls him into it. “So that’s a yes.”

“I get the feeling you’re not going to ask directly. I just want to point out how strange it is that I’m the confident one here.”

Peter steps away, going for the coffee machine. “Say it quieter next time, I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Can I stay?” When he looks over his shoulder, Stiles’ fingertips tap against his own arm in a light drumming pattern. It’s not nervous energy. The sound is more equivalent to a hum, an action done as an outlet for excessive joy. He used to do that when they would make dinner together, if they weren’t otherwise occupied. Peter clears his throat to keep that thought vague and the coffee machine light flickers to life.

“I don’t see why not.”

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 200 kudos, bless. Thank you for your patience and comments. Enjoy.


	23. Chapter 23

It’s expected, because Stiles didn’t stay over. He went home after their conversation, claiming to run errands as Peter went back to sleep. It’s around noon when the werewolf gets out of bed, going out for lunch. His delightful meal on the beautiful sunny day is interrupted by a phone call, Scott warning him to look out for a rogue hunter that seems to be going after all of them at once. Peter stares down at his soup, noticing the lack of people on the restaurant’s back patio as his vision blurs. He knew it tasted different today.

It's probably the best sleep he's had in a while, uninterrupted and peaceful. So, he's upset when he wakes up, a bag pulled from over his head as he blinks to push his senses through the haze of drugs in his system. There’s a heartbeat, one that’s strong and at this moment, irritating. “I would be on a beach by now if you hadn’t come back. This is all your fault,” he growls at Stiles.

“You’re the one who said I could stay, dumbass.”

“That’s irrelevant.” The hunters guarding the door look confused, eyeing him with a weak grip on their weapons, like they aren’t sure if they should be in the room for this. He doesn't know if they're part of Monroe's old group or not, but no scent stands out. “When Scott gets us out of here, I’m going on a very long, very expensive vacation.”

“Can I join you? My last semester is all online classes,” Stiles says, perking up from his restrained position on a nearby chair. It looks more comfortable than the wall of metal to which the werewolf finds himself tied.

“Can’t risk it. For all I know, you’re the danger magnet.”

“I’m not-” Stiles looks off into the distance. “That would explain a lot, actually.”

One of the guards attempts to shut them up. “Be quiet?”

“What, is that a suggestion?” Stiles asks, as unimpressed as Peter, even though he’s a lot less bulletproof. Before either guard can answer, the door slams open, Malia’s roar startling the men into action a second too late. She helps Stiles first, which gets a sour look from Peter as they both help him down.

“Hold on, you accidentally left them alive,” he points out, herded out of the room as Malia shakes her head.

They’re at his apartment later, Peter stepping out of the shower and prodding bruised ribs as Stiles accepts the take-out delivery. They eat at the kitchen island, staring toward the night view until a half-eaten carton is set down with a huff.

“Are we just okay? I think this might require a little more discussion.”

Peter swallows. “I don’t know how much more heart-to-heart I can take without packing my bags.”

“Not funny yet,” Stiles says, his smile forced down. “What are we supposed to do? Jump back into bed together and hope it works out?”

“Unbelievable.” Stiles lays an arm over his eyes and catches his breath.

Peter stares at the ceiling and thinks that another shower would be great right now. “You’re the one who recommended it.” Stiles just groans. “Though you should know I’m tempted to handcuff you to the headboard to make sure you don’t leave before sunrise.”

“The feeling’s mutual,” Stiles says, stretching before he drags the blanket up and encourages Peter to turn. He lines them up, and Peter’s hand is dragged over Stiles’ side, starting to trace a triskelion before their fingers tangle together and force him to stop. “Relax. I’m not going anywhere.” He’s asleep before the werewolf can have the last word.

Peter wakes up to an empty bed.

At least he thought so, force of habit maybe. Instead, Stiles is buried in the blanket beside him, slumped in a position that makes Peter think he must have been attacked in the middle of the night, limbs taking up space and contorted to the extreme. He’s also sleeping heavily, not even twitching as Peter sits up. To make sure Stiles isn't dead, the werewolf listens for a heartbeat, closing his eyes and feeling tension escape his muscles, a strain that had gathered slow and turned him into a tense, uncertain mess over the last three years. It made him feel brittle, and he’s relieved that it’s gone.

He tries to lay down and pull Stiles back in, dodging the elbow that flies toward his face at the last second.

“Peter?” The flailing stops, and he’s able to slide his hands over the boy's revealed midriff in lazy, crooked lines. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“If I were, you would know.”

“Comforting,” Stiles huffs, turning in Peter’s hold, but not trying to tug his shirt back down. “Any reason you felt like waking me up in the most lecherous way possible?”

Peter leans in, his fingers counting Stiles’ ribs in easy waves. “If you think this is lecherous,” he says, leaving it open-ended as the vibration of a laugh meets his lips on the boy’s neck. Peter’s content to sit in the moment, noticing that Stiles is drifting back to sleep. He twists under Peter’s hand, getting comfortable as he exhales. “I thought you were an early riser.”

“Oh, absolutely not. I cursed your existence and your awesome body for putting me in a situation where I had to move before the sun came up.”

“Awesome body?” Peter asks, silently preening as Stiles hums. He seems to be fighting his own desire to sink into the hold sleep has on him. One eye cracks open to watch Peter when he pulls away to go make coffee.

“I could use a different adjective.”

“Awesome seems to be the highest compliment you can give, so I’m flattered,” he says, Stiles grinning into the pillow. “Go back to sleep. I'll wait until you’ve woken up to make a break for the airport.”

“I get a five minute head start,” Stiles mumbles, fitting himself into another shape that shouldn’t be possible. Peter has one foot on the floor before he loses the will to leave, legs sliding back under the blanket. The werewolf closes his eyes. There’s a heartbeat beside him, one he knows better than his own, and he lets his anchor pull him to sleep.

Peter wakes up to a bed that isn’t empty anymore.


End file.
